


The lightest Breeze

by melonbutterfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a life model, and Dean is the artist that draws him. But this time, Castiel feels like he is the one who's captivated instead of the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The lightest Breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Titus Livius quote: "The populace is like the sea motionless in itself, but stirred by every wind, even the lightest breeze."

Castiel keeps perfectly still.

It's never been so hard.

The artist's eyes jump from the paper to him back to the paper again, and Castiel is not new to being naked, but he has never felt so exposed before in all his life.

He's modelled for the University's art department for almost a year now, and before that he's been model for Jimmy; naked, dressed, alone, with others, for single persons and art classes, he has done it all. And he really can't tell what's so different about this one, this single artist – Dean Winchester is his name, if he remembers correctly – that makes it hard to keep his breathing calm and controlled, to not shift and try to hide, try to present himself in a better light. (He has no misconceptions about his body – he knows he's no Adonis, but he's not exactly a Hunchback from Notre Dame either.)

The artist – he has to keep calling him artist in his head, because if he starts referring to him by his name this will become even more intimate than it already is, and he isn't sure how much more he can bear – takes a breath, licks his lips, and Castiel has to close his eyes for a moment. But he has to open them again – every significant change in his position will pull the artist out of his trance, and then the whole sketch could be ruined; he has learnt that from his twin when they were still children, Jimmy entranced with lines and curves on paper, Castiel with words.

He has to keep perfectly still.

And he's grateful for a whole new reason that he let Jimmy drag him to meditation and Yoga classes; the breathing exercises come in handy now, even if few else he learned there ever did. They always were too silent for him before; he had had no patience and fell asleep each and every time, which hadn't always been appreciated. Right now, he's in no danger of falling asleep, he only wished he were. No, he feels strangely energized, almost exhilarated; as if something important is happening right now, and he wants to jump up and do cartwheels around the room, or perhaps do a kata. Scream a song, write porn. Something.

The artist takes another audible breath, and his eyes are piercing when he looks up and keeps his gaze on Castiel.

He can't breathe, but he doesn't notice until until the artist lowers his gaze onto his paper again, coal scratching audibly on the surface.

Castiel takes a breath, and it rushes to his head as if someone had pressed a button to drug him up again, like that one time in hospital – come to think about it, he feels strangely dizzy and detached too, just like then. It's weird, and scary, but for some reason he isn't scared, he's almost- he's almost giddy.

The artist says, "I think I will need some colour, after all," and it takes Castiel a long moment to realise he's talking to him, so used is he to not being addressed. He's not a person like this, he's an object – if he were anything but, he'd certainly have problems standing naked in front of a class of twenty-plus people. And nobody ever speaks to him while he's an object, except for the teacher who'll tell him to change position or that the lesson is over.

So, it's no wonder it takes Castiel extraordinarily long to notice someone is talking, and talking to him – he probably wouldn't have if they weren't alone, not a sound in the room except for their breathing, the scritch-scratch of the coal.

He can't find an answer, doesn't even know if he's supposed to say something, and the artist's lips curve in amusement. But he doesn't say anything more.

Castiel keeps perfectly still.


End file.
